


Shields

by goldensnitch18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensnitch18/pseuds/goldensnitch18
Summary: The war left Dean with so many shields.
Relationships: Dean Thomas/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 15
Kudos: 32
Collections: Charms: 2020 Round Two





	Shields

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2020Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2020Round2) collection. 



> "Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. The theme for this round of the competition was Charms and my chosen pairing was Blaise Zabini/Dean Thomas. Comments/Reviews are encouraged by The Slytherin Cabal's Admin Team on all stories in Death By Quill, but comments left by readers are set to be moderated by story authors until the end of the competition in order to protect participants' anonymity.

To be honest, the entire mess was McGonagall’s fault. None of it would have happened if she had just left things alone. Dean would have happily returned to Gryffindor tower, finished his education out quietly, and taken his exams. But, that old bird had gotten it into her head that the _8th years_ needed a separate arrangement. They were a unique situation, something Hogwarts had never experienced before and hopefully would not again.

The castle itself wasn’t blameless. McGonagall came up with the hair-brained idea of putting them together, sure, but Hogwarts _changed._ It wasn’t the same when they came back. Little things had shifted from the way they were before, and Dean was pretty sure that the entire corridor the 8th years lived in hadn’t been there before the war. 

Bloody magic. 

He hadn’t thought much of the arrangements in the beginning. It had just been another change, one more way that things would never be the same. Each night, Dean pulled his curtains around his four-poster and whispered a familiar _Protego_ and _Fianto Duri_ , the charms an old habit left over from sleeping on the run, before falling asleep with his wand under his pillow. Most nights he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand back out from beneath the pillow. He gripped the wand tightly in his hand, tried not to think about the source of the deep breathing across the room, and closed his eyes.

He was _always_ there. 

Dean never saw Blaise anywhere but in the Great Hall, classes, and their bedroom. While in the Great Hall, Blaise sat at the Slytherin table, but he rarely talked to anyone. Dean couldn’t remember the way his voice sounded, to be honest. His mouth was set in a permanent flat line of indifference. His mouth was … well. Dean didn’t look at _his_ mouth. 

In classes, Blaise’s hand moved quickly across the parchment, taking notes on whatever in the world they were supposed to be learning about that day. His hands seemed soft and unburdened by the callouses that Dean had developed over the past year. His hands could … well. Dean didn’t think about _his_ hands. 

After dinner in their rooms, Blaise lay in bed. His body sprawled across the black covers, a book or notes set out before him. He let out soft noises that seemed to express either understanding or confusion, but Dean certainly didn’t pay enough attention to Blaise to recognize the slight addition of a second hum when it was a sound of understanding. 

Anyway, Dean’s roommate wasn’t really that important in the beginning. It wasn’t really something he worried about. But, slowly, with the ache of lost innocence and firm mistrust, Dean became used to Blaise’s presence in his room. It wasn’t that they were friends, or that they spoke, or that they made much of a point of looking at each other, but he was _there_. 

He was _always_ there. 

Dean took to leaving the room as often as possible. He stayed in the 8th years’ common room. He wandered out to the Quidditch Pitch with his friends. He locked himself in a broom closet with a seventh year Ravenclaw girl several times, until he realized the problem. 

The problem with how he was thinking about Blaise when he pressed her back against the wall. That he was remembering the tight pull of Blaise’s trousers when he grabbed her arse. That he was moaning about the way Blaise’s mouth pouted out even when it tried to be indifferent when he bit her bottom lip. That he was imagining the way Blaise’s fingers would feel if they replaced hers in gripping the front of Dean’s shirt. He wasn’t the first bloke Dean had fancied, but he was the first Slytherin. 

He kept hoping, waiting, wishing that it would fade. One day surely, Dean would wake up, drop his shield charms, look over at Blaise’s bed where the curtains were always wide open, and feel nothing. But that never happened. Every morning, he held his wand firmly in his hand as he tried to swallow down the lump that formed when he saw the rumpled pile of blankets tangled in Blaise’s body. He was … fuck. And Dean was fucked. 

Months passed in the fuzzy way the life had begun to exist, nothing seeming quite clear, nothing seeming quite right, but everything carrying on anyway. Dean hated it, but he pushed forward, taking life one day at a time, inching closer to the end of the year, to freedom and desperately needed distance from Zabini. 

Because he was _always_ there. He was there when Dean returned from wanking in the shower. He was there when Dean needed to be alone. He was there when Dean wanted not to be alone more than anything in the world. And, he was there every single night when Dean whispered those words before he could close his eyes. And he was there the one night when words shattered the months-long silence, tearing a hole in their routine, in their carefully crafted existence. 

“Are you scared of me?” They were a whisper, just barely audible, just loud enough that Dean could pretend he hadn’t heard them. He did, for a few breaths. He was silent, stunned by the idea that he could be scared of the boy across the room. Blaise was silent and sexy as fuck and a little odd to be sure, but he was not frightening. 

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but the lump had formed again, his throat expanding to attempt to block the word from escaping. He let out a soft, shaky breath. He swallowed the nerves right down to the flip in his stomach. “No,” he whispered back. “I’m not scared of you.” 

“I won’t hurt you,” Blaise said. 

“I know that,” Dean assured him. 

“Then … why?” Blaise asked. Dean turned his head, but he couldn’t see the other boy because of the curtains around him. Maybe it was better that way. 

“I can’t stop,” Dean admitted. His voice shook as the words formed in his mouth, tasting rotten. Dean heard Blaise shuffling across the room, and the soft pad of feet on the floor moving toward his bed. The curtains pulled back, opening wide. 

Blaise stood before him, bare-chested and holding his wand. “Come on,” he said, motioning for Dean to stand. Confused, Dean pushed up on the bed, shifting to drop his feet to the floor. 

“What?” he asked. 

Blaise nodded towards the door, and then led the way to it, taking a few small steps. Dean followed, his own wand gripped tightly. “We can shield the room,” Blaise said, waving at the door, “instead of the bed.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed, lifting his wand. 

“ _Protego_ ,” they said together. 

“ _Fianto Duri.”_ When they were done, Dean let out a soft breath of air. The brush of Blaise’s hand against his could have been accidental. Dean could have ignored it, and then it would have been nothing. He could have gone back to bed, put back up his shields that existed inside of his head without a single incantation, and then he wouldn’t have had to explain anything to anyone. He wouldn’t have to face the burning in the pit of his stomach or think about why he wanted to let Blaise help him keep expanding his limits, pushing the borders of his charms further and further out. 

Instead, Dean wrapped his fingers around Blaise’s, the movement quick and without reason and then nothing made any sense but to move his other hand to the back of Blase’s neck and to taste those fucking lips and push him back against the shielded door as Blaise rocked his hips forward against Dean, and they were one mess of unguarded passion gripping and tasting and touching and healing. They were so very fucked, and it was all McGonagall’s fault.


End file.
